


Getting the Message

by loveslashangst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveslashangst/pseuds/loveslashangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well-meaning but misguided attempts at matchmaking, via text-messaging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exchanges

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really trying not to get eaten by this fandom, but it may be inevitable. And if [ophymirage](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ophymirage) hadn't said something about the text messaging fights, I wouldn't have been tempted.
> 
> Set before "The Great Game", because I want to see what Moffat does with the corner into which he's painted himself.

_mycroft: Did you get the box of household goods? Please consider it a housewarming present.  
sherlock: Fuck off.  
mycroft: Will have Anthea schedule refill every three weeks or so.  
sherlock: Fuck off.  
mycroft: Am forwarding to John, in case he has any specific requests. He's welcome to contact me at any time.  
sherlock: FUCK. OFF._

Amused, Mycroft tucks the mobile back into his breast pocket. Gratitude has never been his brother's strong suit, and though taking care of Sherlock is slightly more hazardous than hand-feeding a poisonous serpent, he holds onto the belief that in the end, both of them know he's doing what is best for the boy.

Even if Sherlock's not so much a boy anymore. When he was barely out of his teens, one could excuse the appalling living conditions as symptomatic of youth, but once Sherlock passed the thirtieth-birthday marker, there really was no excuse for someone as brilliant as Mycroft's younger brother to be constantly living alone in half-tended squalor.

So the arrival of John Watson, doctor, soldier, and adventurer, has been a godsend. Mycroft has suspected for at least a decade that, if Sherlock does in fact possess a sexuality, it leans decidedly toward an appreciation of the male over the female. Hard to tell when the boy goes out of his way to irk, annoy, and alienate everyone who might be even remotely interested in him. But if ever there were anyone who might tempt his brother to something resembling human emotion, surely the good doctor, with his steadfast loyalty, level head, and non-judgmental nature, is the best candidate Mycroft's interviewed in years.

So Mycroft opts for the obvious tactic first: he politely kidnaps John, poses as the mysterious arch-nemesis, then bribes and warns him by turns. The exchange is delightful from first to last; John stands his ground against every assault, insinuation, suggestion, and temptation. Mycroft begins to see what intrigued Sherlock, for John is every inch the man of honour, with an appealing stripe of determination and defiance -- a brother in arms. For better or for worse, it is perfectly obvious that John intends to attach himself to Sherlock, and the physician's instinct is to care for and defend his charge.

The kidnapping couldn't have gone better if Mycroft had scripted it himself. It's all he can do not to hum happily to himself as he strolls away.

He couldn't have expected John to simply move in with Sherlock without any complaint, nor to survive the first week without running in terror. (Some of Sherlock's past flatmates have literally run screaming, usually after finding the nightmares his brother euphemistically terms "experiments".) Mycroft is delighted when not only does John survive, but Sherlock seems to accept him, not merely as a pawn, but as a partner.

Better yet, John is just broken enough to be interesting to Sherlock. Also broken enough to tolerate him, and perhaps eventually even to love him. And that military background -- John needs orders to obey -- will be perfect for grooming Sherlock into his eventual destiny in Mycroft's government; it's high time Sherlock became accustomed to giving orders. Mycroft is all too aware that Sherlock fights having official authority for the same reason he resists obeying official authority -- he finds it much more useful and much less "boring" to exist outside of all rules and social constraints. Makes for a fantastic consulting detective, but a piss-poor career man to fit Mycroft's designs.

Now Mycroft watches the play of shadow and light pass the car window, considering both the issue at hand and his options. The barbs and jibes and insults are regrettably symptomatic of the fact that Sherlock hasn't progressed emotionally beyond the age of fourteen, and unfortunately most fourteen-year-olds are decidedly ambivalent about their sexual nature. So if Mycroft is to advance his brother in all senses of the word, then the question remains: How can he convince Sherlock to thoroughly lay John in such a way that neither of them will panic and ruin what is otherwise a mutually beneficial relationship?

It's a question that has begun to obsess Mycroft. Lately, Sherlock has been more stable than he's been in months, perhaps years, but such a lengthy good patch might precipitate an even more extreme backslide into bad habits. Mycroft needs to settle the issue, for if Sherlock is distracted between cases by satisfying sex with a good man, he'll be much less likely to revert to narcotics, which will be more manageable for Mycroft and less hazardous for everyone else.

Mycroft wishes for the thousandth time that he could simply go to John and ask him to take care of (and thoroughly shag) his younger brother, but that's not the hand he's been dealt. Best case scenario of such a prospect: John gladly agrees to take care of the man they both love, begins to let his rather impressive protective streak take over, Sherlock smells a conspiracy, and John manages to escape Sherlock's petulant wrath with life, limb, and sanity intact. Worst case scenario... does not bear thinking about.

Back to the current problem. Some brothers can engage in sibling rivalry while still being friendly over Christmas dinner, but not the Holmes boys; Sherlock spends most of the time hating him, defying him, and wishing him dead. Which is still preferable to his being bored. No telling what the boy may get up to, if he's not suitably occupied. And if Sherlock weren't equal parts "occasionally useful," "wasted potential," and "pain in the arse", Mycroft would have washed his hands of him years ago.

Mycroft drums his fingers on the armrest. Beside him, Anthea waits for him to emerge from his thoughts. He gives her a brief look. She gives him a brief smile. Both of them turn away in a mutual understanding that's taken years to cultivate.

Mycroft supposes he could try bribery again; apparently, the thought of defrauding his older brother amuses Sherlock, and John will certainly need untold thousands to repair the constant damage Sherlock will inevitably do to their shared quarters. However, now that John knows Mycroft's true relationship with Sherlock, it will be harder to create a plausible pretence for such a payoff.

An idea strikes him, and again, he has John to thank for his amusement. A financial transaction may just provide the solution to this problem.

Mycroft turns back to Anthea and explains the plan.

She chuckles all the way back to Pall Mall.

Mycroft considers this a positive sign.

_john: Sherlock, why is your brother texting me offering cleaning supplies?  
sherlock: Do not reply.  
john: Have already asked for the lime/lemongrass "Fairy", 4 the dishes.  
sherlock: Do not reply.  
john: Why not let M foot bill for necessities?  
sherlock: Because my brother is inherently evil. DO NOT REPLY._

John takes a certain perverse satisfaction in using the contents of Mycroft's gift box. Aside from the fact that it makes Sherlock sulk in amusing ways that involve operatic use of the sofa, the elder Holmes really does have excellent taste.

"What assurances do we have that there is no surveillance equipment in that?" says Sherlock.

John considers the innocent bar of soap. "Because it washes clean, shows no signs of wires or other tech and--" he raises the French-milled lump to his nose--"it smells like lemon verbena."

Sherlock crosses his arms, glaring. "Traitor."

John sets down the offending bar and rinses his hands. He smiles his way through drying and stacking the dishes. He doesn't mind the task, really, as imposing what order he can manage on Sherlock's life -- and, by extension, his own -- is its own reward. (Though he privately holds out hope Sherlock might appreciate the effort, should he ever acquire the habit of noticing such things.)

As he puts the last plate away, it occurs to John that this is rather domestic, both the setting and the affectionate spat. True, he and Sherlock relate in ways no sane, normal flatmates would ever consider, but John's one frilly apron away from being Sherlock's housekeeper. And of course, when one thinks of an ex-army bloke in a frilly apron, why should it surprise him that…

He frowns, annoyed, as the Issue begins to niggle him again. He fidgets, itching for something useful to do with his hands, yet resenting the thought that frilly-apron-worthy housework is the only thing he's useful at doing in this flat.

And frankly, he's growing tired of correcting people when, upon introductions, they assume he's Sherlock's partner. The other kind -- not that there's anything wrong with that, everything's fine -- and not that he'd seriously like to be. Hell, Sarah's practically his girlfriend. Well, would be, if the two of them were ever conscious at the same time and long enough to make it officially official.

John's fingers tap restlessly at the counter and suddenly it seems impossible to stand in a way that doesn't make his leg twinge in decidedly non-psychosomatic ways.

"Everyone assumes we're a couple," he says at last. "And I'm beginning to see why."

"Everyone is an idiot," says Sherlock. "And why does it matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't," John concedes. "To you, at least."

Sherlock raises a triumphant eyebrow. "If it really mattered to you, John, you wouldn't have moved in. Or you would've moved out after our first case."

John focuses on the innocent bar of soap in its dish as if it can answer the question that's been bothering him since he first set foot in this insane flat.

"No, I don't," Sherlock says, as if the answer bores him.

"You don't what?" he says, startled.

"Engage in sexual intercourse, with myself or other people." Again, Sherlock might as well be discussing the colour of the wallpaper.

He glares, cornered. "What makes you think I was going to ask that?"

Sherlock minutely examines the fingernails of one hand. "What makes you think I'll believe that you weren't?"

He turns his back on the counter -- and the soap. "You're insufferable."

Sherlock shrugs. "You're obsessed."

He colours hotly. "I am not."

"John," says Sherlock with sharp-edged condescension. "My sexuality or lack thereof was the subject of the first wholly honest conversation you and I ever had. I'm married to the work. You're married to your notion of yourself as a ladies' man. Both of us are content in our chosen identities. Why question something so obviously functional?" Sherlock leans up on one elbow, mocking and curious in turns. "Unless I'm right…"

"Which isn't guaranteed." Though John knows this is a feeble defence.

"Based on the numerous times you've goaded me into a fight and then flounced out in a huff," says Sherlock, "part of your new identity lies in proving yourself to be a good and 'normal' man in spite of your choice of company and avocation. You do this by playing the martyr at my unfeeling hands so it will be my fault that you've wound up in this unusual arrangement."

It's like trying to waltz with a deranged pogo stick. "What unusual arrangement?"

"I've just figured it out," says Sherlock. "It's brilliant, actually, but it will require…" He considers John for a long, probing moment.

John's cheeks go hotter beneath the tan that never seems to fade, no matter how long he's been home. He would love Sherlock's scrutiny if it ever came without the double-edge, but he endures it because he's too proud to back down, now that there's been a challenge. "What? Require what?"

"No." Sherlock's lids droop slightly, which might be some sort of concession, if only John knew how to read the man, then Sherlock flops back down on the sofa. "You'll never do it, and I'm never trying it again. Forget I mentioned it. It doesn't matter."

"No," John says, now well pissed as well as embarrassed. "You started this, Sherlock, now you finish it, because you're clearly not just talking flatmates or you wouldn't make it sound like an arranged bloody marriage. What won't I do and what are you never trying again?"

"It's a bad joke anyway," says Sherlock. "An old friend walks into a post-mortem lab…And yet, you could have said no, but you didn't. You could've turned your head when I warned you not to look, and yet you wanted to see, just as badly as I do. Now you want me to be the hero when you need someone to worship and the villain when you need someone to blame."

John leans back on the counter. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I don't need to," says Sherlock carelessly. "You'll do it for me." He glances up, viciously triumphant. "Or had you forgotten I read your blog?"

John only barely resists the urge to throw the bar of soap at his flatmate.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," says Sherlock. "Bloody expensive, that."

When the soap hits Sherlock squarely in the chest, the world's only consulting detective makes a satisfyingly startled grunt.

_sherlock: Need to talk. Coming now.  
mycroft: I'm busy. Make appointment.  
sherlock: In lift, passing fourth floor.  
mycroft: Security has been called.  
sherlock: Good. The game is on._

Despite half a dozen highly-trained security, the latest alarm system, and the vigilance of his staff, Sherlock appears not three minutes later in the chair opposite Mycroft's desk. His younger brother looks quietly furious and a bit defensive, glaring at him from beneath that unkempt mop he considers hair.

"I suppose it'd be pointless to tell you to go out and make an appointment with Anthea like a proper human being?" Mycroft says.

"Why does John stay?" Sherlock demands.

Mycroft blinks twice before recovering himself. "John Watson, you mean?"

Sherlock's unusual pale eyes make the glare a few degrees icier. "Yes, I mean John bloody Watson," his younger brother snarls. "What other 'John' is there who's worth noticing? It's been niggling me for weeks now. Why does he stay?"

The opportunity couldn't be more perfect if Mycroft had engineered it himself -- which, admittedly, he mostly has.

"Well," he says carefully, "it certainly isn't for the reason you're considering."

Sherlock's glare demands he continue.

Mycroft crosses the office to perch on the edge of his desk. "He's not going to be with you forever, Sherlock."

"I know that." Sherlock's defensiveness is promising. Usually, people move in and out of his life without his noticing, let alone caring.

"You should really enjoy the time you have," Mycroft advises.

"And what's that supposed to mean?' Sherlock's tone is sharp in a way that has nothing to do with simple boredom or impatience. Better and better.

Mycroft schools his face to be calm. "It means you have a dearth of friends."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, picking at one seam of the armrest of the extremely expensive Venetian brocade chair. "Spare me the caring façade."

Mycroft leans forward, earnest as he can manage. "John will leave, Sherlock, because he's a good man."

"And I'm not," Sherlock says, sullen.

"You try to be," Mycroft says. "But for all John's damage, he's still functional within normal limits, which is why the life you've made for yourself will not suit him forever. It can't -- not every one of his wounds is psychosomatic; there is only so far you can push any man."

"I'm bad for him." Mycroft watches Sherlock dissect this thought, turning it over from all angles as if looking for a way to magnify or amplify it into coherence. For all the boy's brilliance, such little things are always a struggle for him.

Mycroft shrugs away the insinuation, even as he lets it take root. "So enjoy John's friendship while you have it. The two of you are good for the defence of this city."

A razor-edged eyebrow. "You don't give a shit about the defence of this city."

Sherlock's immature personal attacks honestly bore him. "I care a great deal about this country. London is in this country. And frankly, you're a great deal smarter than John in your priorities; you have your work while John's off chasing skirts that he doesn't really care about."

Sherlock turns on the mocking sneer. "Your tactics, dear brother, are so obvious a child could read them."

Mycroft settles back. "But I'm not wrong, am I?"

"Of course you are." The fidgeting increases in pace, a steady picking at the now-unraveling seam of the armrest.

"About what part, specifically, am I wrong?" Calm is the key to annoying his brother into action. "You having work, you needing work, or John not caring about the skirts he chases?"

"About..." Sherlock's confusion turns quickly to anger, one of the few emotions with which he's ever been truly comfortable. "You're doing that again. I hate it when you do that."

"Doing what?" Mycroft guiltily admits to himself that infuriating his younger brother is almost as satisfying as taking care of him.

"You turn everything--" Sherlock starts up from his chair, then settles uneasily back into it. Poor boy is rightly unsure which move will lose him the fight, and -- like his flatmate -- is too proud to admit when he's been outmaneuvered.

Mycroft gives his brother a look of mild interest.

He's frankly surprised Sherlock doesn't find something to throw. Instead, the penetrating look says Sherlock's grown bored with this game of unspoken communication and confusing emotional cues. "Reverse psychology stopped working on me when I turned four and started being capable of extrapolating motives."

"And if I thought you'd matured past that stage," Mycroft retorts, dropping the caring pretence, "this wouldn't be necessary."

He turns his back on his brother long enough for Sherlock to exit in his usual irritated flurry. After a count of five, Mycroft calls Security again, this time sending them in the right direction.

It wouldn't do to give Sherlock reason to accuse him of being boring.

_john: Where are you?  
sherlock: The Strand.  
john: East or West?  
sherlock: East. Have lost suspect. Keep up.  
john: On intercept.  
sherlock: shooting him = helpful. Avoid major arteries. Need alive._

Sherlock presses the makeshift compress to the suspect's leg. The young man gives a satisfying yelp.

"Don't be so dramatic," Sherlock says. "It's a clean-through wound. You'll live and have a nice scar to show off to your little chav mates."

"Sod off," the suspect snarls. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

"Because you're guilty." He presses down. "The necklace."

"What -- FUCK! -- necklace?" The suspect's shouting in pain.

"The very pretty one that might save your neck," says Sherlock. "You stole it, but you didn't kill the girl to get it, and unless you stop running and start talking, when the DI and the rest of the Met arrive…"

Approaching sirens punctuate the need for expedience. Sherlock signals John to go meet them. With any luck, his flatmate's easygoing charm will detain the police for a few more vital seconds.

The suspect's wan face goes a shade or two paler in the dim.

"Pawn shop or antique dealer?" Sherlock demands.

"Don't know what you're--"

Sherlock grinds the compress hard into the fresh wound. "It's in the third drawer of the right side of the damn bureau, so stop playing games and tell me what you did with the furniture. I know you were coming back for it later."

He eases off just enough that the man can manage, between gasps, to tell him what he needs to know.

Lestrade's little henchmen pull him off. Sherlock lets them, hiding his grin. They shuffle him to the quickly-established perimeter. He doesn't bother to fight, just fobs them off, then slips away with John.

He does love to yank Lestrade's chain.

As their stealthy walk turns to an out-and-out run, John keeps up handily. His loyal companion. Too loyal, perhaps. Always willing to follow Sherlock into the fray.

They scurry through shadows, the pair of them. John's always been good at this, which is a relief, as most of those who've attempted to match him barely made it through part of a case. Plus, John's a damn fine shot, which is also useful, and he seems unencumbered by the gun tucked into his waistband at his lower back.

Sherlock wonders if there is some psychosexual thrill associated with chasing after clues while cold steel rubs at one's spine. Surely there must be. Have to look it up.

But such thoughts aren't what should draw his attention. Sherlock tries not to look at his friend. Not to watch the neat, compact lines of John Watson's arse while he's running hell-for-leather.

(He's watched him before, and it is a surprisingly intriguing sight. All that easy, casual, ignorable façade of normalcy falls away and reveals something much more focussed. More primal and eager and thrilling when finally loosed on the world.

Like him, John can't stand being cooped up with nothing but menial tasks. Both of them are happiest mid-pursuit.)

And Sherlock has to admit John is moderately attractive. He has a nice smile, one that certainly isn't wasted on female company -- and no, that is NOT a pang of envy, which would be patently ridiculous. John moves well, with or without the psychosomatic limp. He snores occasionally, though musically, often in A minor triads. He's militarily obsessive in his daily toilette, even though his clothes are incredibly dull. He'll also turn on Sherlock if precisely more than four plates are left in the sink. (He's tested this hypothesis numerous times over the weeks.)

John has lovely hands.

No. Not lovely. Useful hands. Hands that know their way around a gun, which is the kind of cover Sherlock needs as they approach the run-down storefont. The Met will be after them soon enough. Time is of the essence, assuming that some opportunistic bastard hasn't beaten them to the evidence. The real murderer isn't stupid enough to leave a linking clue like that piece of jewellery where someone can easily find it, especially now that Sherlock's name is publicly implicated in a half-solved murder. (Really, when will Lestrade learn to be discreet?)

John covers him as Sherlock picks the lock. The proximity must be accidental, for surely it'd be easier to aim and discharge a firearm with more room, not with John's back pressed against his, though the proximity is… not intrusive. And surely the perceptible catch in John's breath is due to his concern about being arrested again, this time for a weapons collar, rather than to the physical contact.

Contact. From the middle corner of his right trapezius all the way up to the connecting point at the base of neck and shoulder. Warm. John is warm, though surely just from exertion; he recovers his breath quickly, but his body temperature remains elevated for usually ten to fifteen minutes after a chase.

"Well?" says John, impatient. "Are you in?"

Sherlock pushes the door open in reply. He quashes the urge to seize John, pull him inside, and snog him for all he's worth, even though he could easily blame it on the adrenaline that is currently running rampant in both their systems. John might even respond to the assault, welcome it, perhaps. Curiosity is almost enough to make him engage in the experiment.

But that's not what he's about. Not who he is. And Mycroft's right, much as it galls him. It's all well and good to be intrigued by this man who's somehow seamlessly blended into his life, but the day will come when John tires of his madness and leaves. Better not to get involved in the first place; it always ends badly for the other bloke.

Though Mycroft would smirk endlessly if Sherlock ever admitted there are some things he still doesn't fully understand.

"What's got into you?" says John, brushing past him. "Let's find the bloody thing and get it out of here before it disappears for good."

Sherlock scrapes his wits back together and focuses on the easy task of finding the right piece of furniture among hundreds of others, in the dark.

_sherlock: I hate you.  
mycroft: I know.  
sherlock: John is not attracted to me.  
mycroft: Nor you to him.  
sherlock: Shut up.  
mycroft: I've instructed Anthea to clear an appointment at 1:30.  
sherlock: I don't need an appointment.  
mycroft: Nonsense. What kind of man couldn't clear his schedule for his only brother?  
sherlock: An honest one.  
mycroft: See you at 1:30._

Sherlock never shows for the appointment, though the CCTV cams do show him pacing out on the pavement, partly obscured by the greenery, for over eleven minutes. Mycroft is amused that his brother is agitated enough not to care if he's visible.

And Mycroft laughs outright when Sherlock eventually gives the CCTV the bowfinger and storms off. This is progressing beautifully.

Mycroft also doesn't envy poor John the torture that will inevitably ensue anytime Sherlock Holmes can't avoid dealing with something emotional.

If the good doctor survives the oncoming sulk, he's a better man than Mycroft hoped.

_mycroft: Be careful.  
john: How did you get this number?  
mycroft: He'll be in a bad mood.  
john: I just changed this number.  
mycroft: Just a friendly warning.  
john: What did you do to Sherlock?  
mycroft: Nothing, and that's the problem._

It's not that John is ignoring Mycroft's warning per se, just that it's not always easy to tell when Sherlock is being his normal petulant self, versus when he's really and truly upset about something. Some of it John supposes he could blame on the jewel theft case, which has not been going well ever since the bureau went missing and Sherlock went toe-to-toe in a brief but impressive shouting match with Sergeant Donovan over jurisdiction and tampering with evidence and the lot, but…

Sherlock is watching him.

When they first moved in, being watched would've been an odd kind of compliment, a confirmation that he was interesting enough to occupy Sherlock's attention for longer than three seconds. In fact, there were times John had wished for Sherlock to really NOTICE him.

Now he realizes what an idiot he was. This is worse than the CCTV cameras, because it's everywhere AND it never goes away. And because Sherlock never says anything out loud, it's impossible to fathom why on earth John's become so bloody fascinating.

He makes it through 46 waking hours of being mercilessly and constantly scrutinized before he snaps. "What?"

Sherlock cocks his head, still intent. "One of your nostrils is slightly larger than the other."

With anyone else, John would've assumed he hadn't heard him right. "It's taken you two days to assess the relative sizes of my nostrils?"

Sherlock perches on the edge of the sofa, pale gaze unsettling as ever. "And you've got a bit of whisker -- just at the point of your jaw."

The situation now makes sense. "It's the case."

"You persistently miss that bit," Sherlock continues, as if he hasn't heard him. "No matter how thorough the rest of your self-care."

"We'll find the necklace," John reassures him.

"Your shoes wear more to the outside edge than the inside," says Sherlock. "And you tidy up only the right things, no matter how complex and befuddling a mess I leave."

"And what of it?' says John. "Yes, I object to finding microslides of tissue where I make my breakfast. And I've been bloody patient about the eyeballs in the microwave. It's like living with the scientific equivalent of Jeffrey Dahmer."

Sherlock waves that away. "I've never shagged evidence."

"Very glad to hear it." John's mobile goes off before he can continue their fight about God-knows-what.

_mycroft: Have offer to make you.  
john: Not a good time. Text later.  
mycroft: Contract for private practice.  
john: Already have job, thanks.  
mycroft: Six figures. In Derbyshire. 1 month to get settled. All expenses paid. Contract in e-mail inbox.  
john: Why me? Why now?  
mycroft: Check e-mail. Read contract. All will make sense._

If only because it gives him something to do other than fight with Sherlock, John does check his e-mail. Sure enough, that creepy bastard -- through what appears to be a return-less e-mail that somehow doesn't get snagged by the spam filter -- has sent him a contract and offer.

He doesn't really mean to read it, but once he's begun, he stares down at the screen, stunned.

"What did he offer you?"

"Derbyshire," says John.

"Oh that's just BITCHY," says Sherlock. "Did he promise you a pony and a buxom blonde secretary too?"

"Never much cared for ponies." John scrolls through the downloaded contract, unable to believe what he's seeing.

"I suppose he's offered to wipe your arse and give you a daily allotment of champagne and caviar if you simply nip off to obey his every whim."

"Actually," he blinks. "He's offered me a job. Private practice. Six figures. And I'd be helping veterans."

"Spare me from brothers in arms."

His cheeks and ears burn, but John doesn't look up.

"He'll own you." There's an edge of pleading to the sharp tone. "You're the one thing he doesn't control completely."

The silence is broken only by the faint clicks of John scrolling.

"Actually, never mind. You really should take it," says Sherlock suddenly.

He looks up.

"It's the only way a man like you would ever merit such a practice."

"Vindictiveness is hardly going to convince me to stay."

"I mean, stability is not your strongest suit right now, is it, John?'

That strikes a little too close to home. John grabs his jacket.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demands.

"Considering Mycroft's offer," he says, settling the jacket into place and zipping it shut.

Sherlock settles back on the sofa, arms crossed and body language hostile. "Right, go cry to your girlfriend. She'd probably be delighted to move up to Derbyshire WITH you."

"Yes," says John, angrier than he's ever been with this arrogant prick. "So excuse me if I'm going to see someone who DOESN'T think I'm an idiot."

He slams the door. Hard.

_mrs. hudson: Bit of a domestic, dear?  
sherlock: Go away.  
mrs. hudson: He'll be back soon enough, lovey. They only slam like that when they really love you.  
sherlock: Please go away.  
mrs. hudson: Will bring you tea in half an hour, and those little sugar biccies you're so fond of. And some jammy dodgers for the Doctor, when he returns.  
sherlock: I don't want him to return.  
mrs. hudson: Yes you do, dear. I'll leave you for a bit, then be up later._


	2. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well-meaning but misguided attempts at matchmaking, via text-messaging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the smut will be in chapter 3, but all the juicy falling-in-love-as-dysfunctionally-as-possible stuff is here. I also wrote a lot more than I planned with Sarah, who turned out to be witty, snarky, and wise.

_mrs. hudson: Bit of a domestic, dear?  
sherlock: Go away.  
mrs. hudson: He'll be back soon enough, lovey. They only slam like that when they really love you.  
sherlock: Please go away.  
mrs. hudson: Will bring you tea in half an hour, and those little sugar biccies you're so fond of. And some jammy dodgers for the Doctor, when he returns.  
sherlock: I don't want him to return.  
mrs. hudson: Yes you do, dear. I'll leave you for a bit, then be up later._

The cool of evening hits John like a slap in the face. He must have lost his mind; there's no other explanation for letting Sherlock push every single one of his buttons. And after everything he's been through with that lunatic, John should surely know better than to expect empathy or kindness or any human emotion from his clearly-a-space-alien flatmate. The last few mean-spirited barbs only served to remind John what a fool he's been to stay this long.

His mobile chirps.

_mycroft: You'd be a fool not to take the offer._

The rage boils out of him. "Yes, goddammit, I KNOW!" John hurls the mobile into the nearest bin. "Insufferable ponce."

He makes it a full five strides before he thinks better of it. Unlike certain antisocial so-called geniuses, John doesn't have an all-powerful control-freak brother to bankroll him when he destroys his belongings. Harry would kill him if he broke her phone, even if it was a gift from her ex. Beaten, flushed with cold, and frustrated, John goes back to receive the pieces of the mobile. Its reassembly is just another humiliation on the day.

His foul mood is only made worse when John notices that the nearest CCTV camera has trained in on him. He snaps the back panel of the mobile in place, fury propelling him to his feet.

"GOD DAMN YOU!" he shouts at the CCTV camera. "Would you LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE so I can THINK for a minute?!"

He's startled when a doddering old pensioner pats him on the arm. "I know just how you feel," says the gent. "Nosy things're bloody everywhere. Can't stand 'em m'self."

John shuts his mouth and closes his eyes, wondering when exactly he went round the twist.

Right, probably about the same time he let his "friend" talk him into rooming with Sherlock Holmes.

John jams both mobile and hands into his pockets and heads off again. He's never been so desperate to get to the safety and sanity of Sarah's flat, where there are no mad geniuses or arch-nemeses or heads in the bloody fridge.

And though he's determined to return to something resembling reality, John does flip off every CCTV camera as he passes it. Each swivels to track his movements, and John swears he can sense Mycroft's amused disapproval through the lenses.

"Starting to understand why Sherlock hates you so damned much," he mutters under his breath as he makes another rude gesture.

_mycroft: Has my brother eaten?  
mrs. hudson: He lobbed the tray at my head, but that's hardly surprising, considering.  
mycroft: Keep me apprised, please, should his mood change.  
mrs. hudson: Not his housekeeper, sir.  
mycroft: He needs a friend, not a housekeeper.  
mrs. hudson: Will look in on him later, sir._

When she opens front door to her flat, Sarah's heart beats faster, and not in a good way -- her normally-easygoing doctor is dishevelled and quietly furious.

Then she realizes the most likely cause of John's distress. She might've known that selfish bastard would turn on him again. She opens the door wide. "Sherlock?"

John nods, smiling grimly. "I could really use some normal company right now."

"You're out of luck there," she teases. "Will I do?"

"Yes, please." He kisses her hello, far more brotherly than she'd prefer. Hugs her. She lets him because he's good and solid and warm and male and just… nice. She always wants this to be the time when it's not just a peck and a hug, and it's always not.

Unfortunately, this sequence has become a routine: Sherlock will do something callous and cruel to drive John away, John will come to her for a reality check to ground and centre him. Then she and he don't shag, John sleeps on the sofa like a gentleman, and within minutes of the next text, he's off and running after the disaster-magnet called "Sherlock".

And just watching the looks between the two of them during that first nightmare date-that-wouldn't-end told her everything she needed to know. Maybe the boys don't know themselves. Maybe they'll never actually do anything about it, but whatever the details, Dr. John Watson is a taken man, and Sherlock Holmes hardly seems like the type to share-and-share-alike.

She was angry for a while -- felt like she was being used -- but John's always been too sweet, charming, and in need of sane company for her to turn him away for long. Plus, he appreciates her. He's nice to her. He makes her feel good about herself. If they could just solve the whole not-having-sex thing, he'd be the perfect boyfriend. But while John will often say how much he's looking forward to making love to her, Sarah's not about to hold her breath for him to follow through.

So tonight, instead of the simple shag she knows John thinks he's finally ready for, Sarah sits him down and offers yet another sympathetic ear while John vents about Sherlock. This is about Sherlock because it's ALWAYS about Sherlock. No matter how the venting starts, it always comes 'round to that… whatever he is. And because Sarah actually cares about what happens to John, she tells him to spend the time it'll take her to have a leisurely shower to really think about what Mycroft's offer might actually mean.

The whole "have a think while I have shower" technique is a tactic she's been using more and more lately, in part because it seems to work, and in part because after a really fucking long day on her feet, she needs about fifteen minutes of steady hot water to convince her she's human again so she can sleep -- or cope with the absent Sherlock's iniquities.

When she returns to the living room, now swathed in towel and robe, John has the contrite look of a man who's made a tough decision between two bad choices.

"Sherlock's right," he says, grimacing at the pain of the admission. "If I take Mycroft's offer, that man will own me."

He's so damned winsome. How can anyone resist him when he's being so fucking cute? (It's a good thing he doesn't know how effective those puppy-dog eyes are.) She moves gently closer and parts his knees so she can stand between them, facing him. "Pretty much, yeah."

He looks up at her beseechingly. "So the right answer is 'no'?"

Sarah shakes her head, wishing she could get him to see the reality of his situation. "No orders here, John. You have to make up your own mind."

He gives her a tentatively bedroom-eyed look. "Can I stay here tonight?"

She's startled into a laugh at the proposal. He looks away, hurt. Ruefully, she kneels, tucking the robe under her shins. She turns John's head and makes him look her in the eyes. "John. Love. If you were really interested, you could've had a go at me WEEKS ago. Instead, you've bent my ear, crashed on my sofa, and then raced off as soon as He texted you."

"Bollocks," John says with crumbling dignity.

She straightens. "John. I really like you. And yes, when we first met I would've given you a nice, comfortable shag whenever you asked for it. For a while, I even thought I wanted more than that."

"I do want more than that," says John hopelessly. But it's a reflex.

"But that was before Tongs and kidnappings and things no one should have to survive," Sarah continues, now determined to push this to its conclusion. "And all on a _first date_."

"I am sorry," he says. Again, she wishes he weren't so fucking earnest.

"I know," she says. "You're a sweet man, John, but you can't tell me that if I stand here in front of you--" she drops her robe off her shoulders to prove her point. Stands to let it fall to the floor, half-hoping that she's wrong about what he'll do when he sees her naked "--that you're not still thinking about him."

He stares, gobsmacked at the sudden show. Sarah freely owns she's far from perfect, but if John desires her as much as he's just said, surely he'll at least try to touch her? Yet John's hands lie forgotten on his knees, and a sidelong glance at his lap tells her that she hasn't managed to stir anything there either. She takes this as a challenge. If their charade is just that -- a polite game of flirtation that's never going to come to anything -- maybe it's time they both admitted the truth to each other.

Sarah straddles John's lap, kneeling on the couch. She looks down at him. Startled and a little flustered, he looks up at her.

She kisses him. His hands go to her lower back, uncertain (when she wants him to be passionate), and almost confused about where to touch. He closes his eyes as if he's hoping to find his concentration by not having to look at her. Frustrated, she attacks his mouth with hers, a deep, searching kiss. Maybe there's something there, if she tries hard enough.

For a brief moment, his mouth moves against hers, awkward and… the bad kind of instinctive. She knows he's kissed plenty of women before; his body's just reacting out of habit. And that's what she is to him -- a habit.

Sarah breaks the kiss.

The words seem to boil out of him. "It's just that he's such a WANKER!"

She sighs sadly. Presses her forehead to John's. Gets off him. Belts her robe back into place. She should have known she was kidding herself. Guys like John are always too good to be true. There's always a catch.

John drops his head into his hands. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

She blinks and swallows hard against the prickle of bitter tears. "None of us can choose where we love."

"I'm not in love with him!" But he says it so vehemently she's pretty sure he's already caught on that he's doomed.

"John," she says, as gently as she can. "He infuriates you, fascinates you, and dominates your life. I'd love to try for something, but frankly there's no room in your life for me."

"That's not true," he insists.

"Isn't it?" she says. "Check the last 20 messages on your mobile. Tell me they're not all either from him or about him."

Brows beetling, John obeys. As he scrolls, his face falls farther and farther.

"You're his," Sarah says, hands in the pockets of her robe. "And that's that."

"Fuck." The hand with the mobile droops. John has the abjectly miserable look of a man who's realized at last how he really feels.

"How long have you known?" he says at last.

"You let him join us on our first real date, knowing full well that it would stop being about you and me the minute he showed up."

"I should have made him leave," John says. "I'm a bastard for that."

She puts an understanding hand on his shoulder. "You got caught up in things. That passion is what drives you -- or any good doctor -- but the problem is your passion isn't just for curing people, and Sherlock taps into that need to do something more." (And he's such an impossibly larger-than-life figure that she can hardly blame John for loving him.)

"He'll be the death of me," says John bitterly.

She nods, not seeing the point of sugar-coating. "Eventually. He'll keep you as safe as he can -- at least, if he loves you like I think he does -- but he doesn't strike me as a particularly safe man." She folds her arms, ignoring the steady ache in her chest. "But even if he isn't, you should still stay here in London. Don't accept the brother's--"

"Mycroft," says John into his hands.

"Mycroft's offer. At least if you stay with me and the hospital you have some anchor back to reality, however tenuous."

John sighs. "Can I still come to you? When things…?"

"I have a comfortable sofa," she says.

John's laugh is a painful exhale. "Don't suppose I can persuade you to forget everything you've just said and to take that robe off again?"

She shakes her head no. "Not a chance."

The best thing about John is he has a finely tuned sense of empathy, and thus knows when there's no point to discuss things further. He stands.

She hands him his coat.

"Thank you," he says.

She manages a bittersweet smile. "Glad I could help."

He gives her a heartfelt hug and a platonic peck on the cheek. As she shuts the door behind him, she predicts that such a peck will undoubtedly be the first of many.

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes," she mutters.

_john: i hate you.  
mycroft: Most people do, sooner or later.  
john: why are you doing this?  
mycroft: I like to nurture potential, where I see it. Do you need more time to consider the offer?  
john: you'll have your answer within the hour.  
mycroft: Be gentle with him; he doesn't take rejection well._

Sherlock pounds up the stairs to Sarah's flat. Finds the irritated buzz of the doorbell a sharply satisfying punctuation to his mood.

Sarah opens the door as wide as the safety chain will allow.

"Where is John?" says Sherlock.

She gives him an irritating smirk. "Sorry, but you'll have to wait."

Really annoyed, he gives her one long head-to-toe look, absorbing all the data.

"You are naked under that robe," he says. "So I'm meant to assume the worst, but you don't smell at all like sex, and only a little bit like John. The bags under your eyes and the way you favour your dominant foot indicate exhaustion -- you just got off a long shift at the hospital. Hair up, damp tips to the fringe, the trace of shaving cream at your right ankle and the strong scent of rose bath gels -- Crabtree &amp; Evelyn, unless my nose fails me -- all indicate a shower, and reddened lips mean you did kiss him, and not that long ago." Relief cuts through the razor-sharp focus. "But it was only a kiss… and nothing else happened." He feels like he can breathe again.

Sarah smiles faintly. "What he sees in you."

"I need to come in." He's in no mood for further nonsense.

She straightens, still smiling that weird smile. "And if I say no?"

"I'll break the chain and search the flat anyway," he says, impatience rising. "I'd prefer not to be unpleasant about it."

"'Unpleasant'," she repeats. "Well. Small mercies, I suppose."

As soon as the infernal chain is removed, he presses the door open. Begins to search the room. Faint traces of John's aftershave. Old, like they've been faint for hours. He stood here. Walked here. Sat here.

And all the while, the woman keeps re-wrapping her robe ever more tightly as if to remind them both she doesn't want to be unclothed around him. Sarah's body language is equally closed. Guarded.

"How long ago did he leave?" he says.

"I can't see how that's any of your business," she says tersely.

She's annoyed with him, which is hardly a new phenomenon, but this is a different kind of annoyance. It's not the outright hostility that Donovan exhibits when he guesses some personal detail correctly, nor the raised-eyebrow pause that Mrs. Hudson uses to let him know he's said something wrong. Irritating. He searches back further through his mental catalogues to try to find a match to this new emotion.

He heads for the bedroom. She blocks him bodily. "Oh no you don't," she says. "There are some places you don't get to go unless I'm one of your corpses."

She's acting like he's some marauding intruder. He's just searching her apartment; nothing to be overly concerned about. And it's just a bedroom, a room like any other. He's not going to hurt or threaten her, he just wants to see for himself that John is not, in point of fact, here. And if the two of them are shagging, the bedroom would be the most logical place for John to be.

"Hiding, is he?" The thought turns him oddly cold, though he's not sure what to make of that. Somehow the thought of John needing to hide from him is… uncomfortable. John shouldn't want or need to escape him, though Sherlock knows damn well he does. Unfortunately, years of tormenting Mycroft have made him an expert at annoying others.

"And if he is," she says, "could you blame him?"

"It was only a kiss," he says, musing. "If it's only a kiss, where is he now? Wouldn't be naked, unless… no. I'm not wrong." No lingering traces of John or his clothes in the hall.

Which only raises a thornier question: What was John looking for, if not sex? Surely he came here to prove to himself how little he felt for Sherlock. So if he didn't shag the girl, what is he trying to prove? Even assuming that all lovers are unpredictable and untrustworthy, which is something Sherlock's known since university, there must be more to it. Mycroft warned him that John would cling to that normal life. But if John is clinging to it, why does the evidence point to something else?

While Sherlock pauses in the middle of the living room floor to ruminate for a moment, Sarah makes tea. It's so boringly domestic he could just vomit. Unfortunately, it's also precisely what he's in the mood for, though his pride won't let him admit it without a fight.

When Sarah offers him a cup, he eyeballs it, wary.

"Oh for fuck's sake," she says. "If I wanted to drug you, I wouldn't be that obvious. You may be mad as a fucking march hare, but I don't think either of us is stupid."

He cedes the point and takes the cup.

"Now sit down, damn you, and let's attempt to have a chat like reasonable people."

Though Sherlock usually doesn't feel the need to do any reasonable thing unless it bloody well suits him, he does feel something that might be chagrin as he perches on the settee.

"What are we meant to talk about?" he says after a lengthy -- and quite fragrant -- sip of what proves to be a startlingly good Oolong.

"Why you came to my flat and threatened to break down the door if I didn't let you search for John," she says calmly. She blows on her cup until it's cool enough to manage a dainty sip.

"I did not threaten to break down the door," Sherlock says, offended at the imprecision. "You asked what I would do and I told the truth. The chain isn't much more than a formality anyway, as far as security's concerned. A determined five-year-old could break it."

"That's hardly the point," Sarah says with a mild glare.

Sherlock does not squirm. He does not apologize. He does not regret. He does not rue or any such nonsense. He usually doesn't have time for it -- when he bothers to leave his flat, the clock is usually ticking mercilessly away while a suspect plots his escape.

But as Sarah calmly eyes him, he feels an uncharacteristic need to… He's not even sure what. Explain, maybe? He certainly shouldn't have to justify -- he's done nothing wrong. He didn't even break her stupid chain.

"John was angry," says Sherlock at last. "When he left."

"Yes," says Sarah. "What did you do to him?"

"That's a rather extreme conclusion," he says.

"Doesn't make it any less right." She sips again.

He's having rather unsettling flashbacks to the earlier conversation with Mycroft. "I merely suggested that he should feel fortunate to have a job offer as good as the one my brother gave him."

She chokes on her tea, a half-dribble that's more pathetic than amusing. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"It's a good offer." Though he avoids her eyes for reasons he can't identify.

"You're an idiot," she says.

"How do you figure?" But somehow she's manoeuvring him without manoeuvring him. It's bloody irritating, because at least when Mycroft does it Sherlock can console himself that he's fallen victim to a superior intellect. This is like being outsmarted by the family pet.

"No," she says, standing. She goes to make another cup of tea. "I'm not wasting my breath on you."

"You're the one who insisted on this," he reminds her.

She slams the electric kettle back onto its base. "You're not going to listen to me, you're just going to mock me and leave when it suits you and hurt John again, so what's the point of talking to you at all?"

"If you didn't want to talk," he says coldly, "you shouldn't have invited me in."

"I didn't invite you in," she says, equally frozen.

"Did. He. Take. The. Job?"

"You bloody well better be in love with him," she says, "considering the shit you put him through."

"I can't see how that's any of your business," he quotes back at her, even more coldly.

"You could at least shag the poor bastard," she continues, "so he has something to look forward to besides half-a-night's sleep on a comfortable sofa."

"It's overstuffed and hardly comfortable," he says, mostly just to be contrary.

"And while you're at it, if you'd PLEASE stop sending mixed signals, maybe John would have some idea where he stands with you."

Sherlock sets the cup aside and stands, fury like ice at his temples. Then he realizes what she's just said. "Sleep on the sofa?"

"Yeah," she says. "He's been sleeping on the sofa. As in not shagging me. As in not shagging anyone, because he's too busy trying not to be in love with you because you're such a completely rotten fucker sometimes."

The revelation cuts through everything, and his brain -- which has surfaced unaffected from the emotional swamp -- collects every detail. The slight depression here. Lingering scent there. He would've rested… Yes. Sherlock's brain sifts and sorts and confirms and my god, John hasn't been… Not even once…? No. Not at all. Not even a solitary datum to dispute… But that means…

"God, what I wouldn't give for my mobile," Sarah says with a broad and irritating smile. "The look on your face."

"John…?" The words stick, too strange to be pronounceable.

"Yes, you antisocial, heartless monster," she says. "With you, God help him. Which means I get to be sob sister and none of us get laid till at least ONE of you pulls his head out of his arse."

Sherlock opens his mouth, then shuts it again as the final corroborating details settle into place. The complete and perfectly logical conclusion is there before him, sound in structure from start to finish.

John came here for companionship, not sex. John has never come here for sex -- even without viewing the bedroom, Sherlock can see it in every other room. John has never come here for sex because… John's in love with him.

Sherlock blinks, stunned. How can that be right? Surely it would make more sense for John to run to something sane and normal after that last conversation, in which Sherlock was as purposefully callous as he could manage? He looks again. No. It's all here. But how can it be…?

"If you fuck this up," Sarah says, body language hostile again. "So help me, I will throttle you with your own manky scarf."

The warmth starts at his temples, blood flowing as circulation increases. His heart speeds, gradually at first, then builds to a steady pounding. It's like a chase without moving, a victory without effort. Every breath seems like a drug, like a high which keeps on building. All other concerns fall away, unimportant details to be ignored.

John loves him.

"There it is, at last." When Sherlock looks, Sarah's expression has softened. With the clarity of this new emotion, he knows the faint sparkle at the corners of her eyes is the slight threat of tears.

"John went back to your flat," she continues. "Not ten minutes before you arrived. He should be there by now."

Then disaster threatens as Sherlock remembers. "Did he take the job?"

"I hope not," she says, and she sounds as surprised to say it as he is to hear it.

He hates emotions, because they're so hard to qualify and quantify. When does "happy" become "bittersweet" become "painful"? They all jumble and ebb and flow like a chemistry experiment eating through its lab table.

When he hugs Sarah hard for reasons he can't put into words, he's relieved that she hugs him back.

"I hate you," she says.

"I know," he says. "And I will try. For all our sakes."

"You better," she says.

But thoughts of being foiled again by Mycroft, now that he's so close to having… Sherlock doesn't even dare think of what he might have. He's never had this. Once, he tried to go through the motions, but it wasn't this, much as he wanted it to be. This is new, different, exhilarating, terrifying.

And like all things that match that description, he has no choice but to grab his coat, turn up his collar, and chase it.

_sarah: Sherlock's on his way to you. Running.  
john: sounds like him  
sarah: Did you take the job?  
john: haven't answered yet.   
sarah: Do me a favour and make him think you have.  
john: why?  
sarah: Because it's fun.  
john: you're evil. thank you for everything.  
sarah: Thank me after it ends happily._

John is bent over his mobile, intent on composing his reply to Mycroft, when Sherlock rounds the corner hell-for-leather, as if willing himself to be able to outrun a text message. The intense determination on his face turns to something like anger when he sees John, halfway up the front stairs.

Sherlock's hand is painfully insistent when he spins John around. "Don't accept. Please."

Internally acknowledging that he's being a dick and enjoying the meanness just a little, John holds up the mobile. Hits the "send" button.

Sherlock's expression crumples into despair. He staggers, hand losing its strength, though John can tell already the spot on his arm will be bruised. Sherlock turns away as if he's lost the will to fight.

Sarah was right, and so was he. John feels oddly warm to know he didn't just throw away comfort and security for nothing. "Sherlock."

"I don't think you're an idiot." Dear god, is that the rough edge of tears in his voice? No. Sherlock Holmes might, at the bare edge of possibility, cry in frustration at a case. He doesn't bawl randomly on public pavements. "You didn't have to…"

"Sherlock," he says again.

"And now he's got you," Sherlock spits. "The fucking bastard got you too. He ruins everything. Has to control everything and leaves nothing for me."

"SHERLOCK!" John pitches his voice to cut through what promises to be a rollercoaster plunge of negativity if he doesn't head it off.

"What?" Sherlock snarls.

"It wasn't worth it," John says quietly.

Sherlock's whole body goes rigid. "What?" But he's still not turning and looking.

John sighs, unwilling to torture the man any longer. "Mycroft's offer. It wasn't worth it. I don't want to belong to him."

As long as he lives, John will never forget the look of wounded hope in Sherlock's eyes when he turns. Still guarded. Still with the sharp-edged wit at the ready. "You…?"

John shakes his head no. Lets the absurdity of the situation overwhelm him for a moment in a laugh of relief and irony. "I mean really… Derbyshire?"

Sherlock takes a brief, ragged breath. "I'm told it's… lovely country."

"Would've thought you'd have grown up there," John says, deliberately relaxing his own body language.

Sherlock turns a little more. "Sometimes," he says. "As little as possible."

"Which?" says John. "The growing up or the being there?"

A rare, fleeting smile, then Sherlock goes serious and cautious. "John?"

With a sigh and a half-smile, John beckons Sherlock over. As soon as he's in range, Sherlock snatches the mobile from John's hand. Turns away to scrutinize it.

And the man's ear is tipped toward John as if half-listening were a habit. It's an irresistible crescent of white amidst so much black hair. John stretches one hand out slowly. Traces it with two fingertips.

Sherlock makes a slight, startled noise. Leans into the touch. Leans back against John's chest. John's arms go around him by instinct. "You're a complete bastard," John whispers in that lovely ear. "And a sociopath."

Sherlock shivers in his arms. "I DID tell you."

"You're cutting and cruel and you push away everyone who might even try to care about you."

Sherlock chokes on whatever he was going to say. Wraps John's arm more tightly around him. It catches John a bit off guard in its simple humanity -- a man looking for reassurance.

John nuzzles Sherlock's ear. Inhales. Is surprised at what he smells. "Sarah's rose bath."

"Yes." Sherlock's voice is hoarse. "She was… kind."

"You went looking for me," John says, warmed. He scents along the collar of Sherlock's coat. "It's around here too. She hugged you, unless rose has suddenly become part of your normal toilette." He scents again. "No. Those are Sarah's roses. Bay rum, tea, salt, a trace of musk and usually an overlay of 'eau de noxious chemicals' -- that's you, but never roses."

Sherlock, utterly still, waits for him.

He brushes his fingers against the grain of Sherlock's cheek. "You need a shave." He tweaks Sherlock's earlobe. "And one of your ears is set slightly lower than the other."

"Matches your nostril." Sherlock turns in his arms. "Now kiss me."

He cups Sherlock's face in his hands, ignoring the thrill that the command sends through him. "Humans are naturally asymmetrical. Imperfect. Flawed."

"I know," says Sherlock. "Stop talking and kiss me."

"But it's the flaws that make someone truly beautiful." John's determined to memorize every moment of this.

"Please, John." Sherlock's eyes are every colour of a storm at once, and yet still grey.

It is the "please" that gets him, hitting low and visceral, because it's the one word Sherlock would never ever say, and yet he's said it, and beautifully too.

Sherlock looks at him, pale eyes wary but wanting. John leans in. Slowly. Slowly.

Sherlock meets him halfway, lips parted. Being on the first step puts John on a level with Sherlock, making them more or less the same height. There's a lovely, awkward moment when neither of them seems to know what to do with his arms. John realizes after another second that it's because both he and Sherlock are used to being the dominant partner.

Eventually, he catches a hand at the back of Sherlock's head, tangling his fingers in the soft curls His other hand is low at Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's hands are high and insistent under John's shoulderblades. Sherlock's mouth is warm, almost hot. Strong lips. Determined. Thorough. Uncompromising. It's terrifying really, because this is really happening. John wants this to happen. How could he have missed how badly he wanted this to happen? The kiss is almost painfully slow and deliberate, as if now that they've passed this marker, Sherlock's determined to taste and touch and experience him completely. Slow tongue. Claiming him, even as he claims Sherlock.

It's hands-down the best snog John's ever had. For a few moments, there is no one in the world but the two of them. Every uncertainty is answered. He can relax into this embrace he didn't even know he wanted. The heat between them is a heady drug which promises to be more addictive than anything John's ever known.

When they come up for air, he and Sherlock notice that every CCTV camera on the block has trained in on them. he looks to Sherlock. That faint and devilish smile. Sherlock kisses him fiercely, defiantly pulling him closer in an unmistakeable "this one is mine, you can't have him" embrace. Loving every moment of Sherlock's possessiveness, John smiles around the kiss.

Both of them make a rude gesture at the closest CCTV camera.

Every camera politely swivels away.

"That means you win," he murmurs in Sherlock's ear. "But I'll want to get inside the flat before I shag you."

A slight catch of breath, though Sherlock sounds calm. "Agreed."

John can't help laughing as Sherlock catches him firmly by the upper arm and pulls him into the front hall.


	3. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well-meaning but misguided attempts at matchmaking, via text-messaging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XXX for PWP. Enjoy!

_"That means you win," he murmurs in Sherlock's ear. "But I'll want to get inside the flat before I shag you."_

A slight catch of breath, though Sherlock sounds calm. "Agreed."

John can't help laughing as Sherlock catches him firmly by the upper arm and pulls him into the front hall.

As soon as the door shuts, John tackles Sherlock. Because his flatmate is so much taller, there's a definite thrill to pressing him against the entry hall door and dominating him with a kiss.

Sherlock's hands catch at John's jacket. Claw at it, yanking it down and off his shoulders.

Grinning, John makes short work of the buttons on Sherlock's coat.

"You were laughing," Sherlock says even as he helps John strip off Sherlock's coat.

"Need to invest in a frilly apron," John says, feeling giddy and happy and more than a little insane.

Chuckling, Sherlock kisses him. John's eyes fall closed and he drinks in the wonderful heat of this man he thought he hated.

When he opens his eyes, Sherlock's are the dark grey of thunderclouds. "Kinky. Unexplored costume fetish?"

"Long story." He meets Sherlock for a heated kiss. "Not now." The kiss is almost biting this time in its passion. The two of them are well matched -- Sherlock's taller, but John's just as strong. They test each other. Find a rhythm of mouths and hands that works.

Sherlock's gorgeous fingers reach for his muffler. John stops him. Gathers the ends of it in one hand. Leads Sherlock by it, one step at a time, enticing him up the stairs with kisses. Sherlock fumbles for the railing, eyes drooping closed as he follows John's lead, measured, but hardly leashed. Instead of being pulled, he's surging upwards on those impossibly long legs. The thought of what Sherlock's going to do to him as soon as they're inside the flat makes John go hot and cold with delight. John's hand tightens on the muffler's ends, eliciting a low, velvety sound almost like a growl. John kisses it back into Sherlock's mouth.

"We need -- mmm -- keys," says John.

"Mmmmmm," says Sherlock, and the jingling of metal means he already has his. Sherlock tips his chin up so John can kiss him harder. It's all John can do to keep his balance as they reach the landing.

Sherlock pins him to the door to 221B. Kisses him ruthlessly. Pulls the muffler ends from John's suddenly-shaking fingers. John grabs a double-handful of Sherlock's suit coat. Pulls at the shoulder. Clothes. Too many clothes in his way.

"Inside," Sherlock says.

"Right." John's voice is shaking just as much as the rest of him. This emotion he feels now is so large it's going to eat him alive and though part of him wants it to, part of him is more terrified than he's ever been in his life.

They can't go back to the way things were. This is happening and it's real and no he doesn't want to go back, but this is _Sherlock_ and God only knows…

"It's all right," Sherlock soothes, as if he can hear John's fears. "I've got it."

John doesn't hear the click of the lock because he's distracted by another of Sherlock's glorious kisses. Suddenly the door gives behind him. He staggers. Pulls Sherlock inside after him, desperate to touch and be touched, to kiss and be kissed. To just crawl _inside_ this lunatic and oh god the HANDS. He knew it would be like this and yet he was afraid to see what was there because things like this never work out for him and Sherlock is little-white-coat certifiable and John must be mad too to want this as much as he…

He comes up for air. Sherlock lets him, breathing hard too. The two of them stand for a moment, Sherlock's hands at John's back, John's fisted in Sherlock's shirt, both gasping for air. It's like the most amazing kind of drowning, staring into Sherlock's eyes. He can see the question there, the need for permission to be granted which his space-alien-flatmate -- no, _lover_, now he's John's _lover_ \-- will never quite verbalize.

He answers by unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. A sultry half-smile, then Sherlock's pulling John's mouth into another of those knee-weakening kisses while yanking off John's jumper (a moment is too long to be away from that gorgeous mouth) and unbuttoning his shirt.

Stripping the expensive linen off Sherlock's arms is a heady delight. But once both of them are bare to the waist, the whole thing becomes real. Really real. This is happening. John lays one hand on Sherlock's chest, just slightly left of centre, feeling with a surgeon's awareness the quickly-beating heart under the bone beneath the ghost-pale skin.

Sherlock's skin warms to his touch.

Sherlock slows the kiss. Licks into John's mouth as if he were the most decadent dessert imaginable. Sherlock's hands drift, teasing, testing, caressing. John has the giddy sense of him cataloguing a thousand micro-reactions through those sensitive fingertips, finding the spots that make him shiver and press closer. And who would have thought that the mouth that's so adept at sarcasm and even outright cruelty could also be capable of such eloquent and sensual motions. God, he could stand here all night, just kissing this man.

Sherlock hooks his thumbs in the waistband of John's trousers. John's breath catches, nervous and anticipating.

"Thought you were married to your work," John teases.

Sherlock's lips curve against his. Sherlock teases his mouth. "Thought you were a ladies' man."

John pushes down thoughts of his sergeant Murray -- no sense in digging up memories of old lovers. "There are exceptions to every rule."

Sherlock kisses him so hard for a moment John swears he can taste the copper tang of blood. "Precisely."

John doesn't stop Sherlock when he begins to unfasten John's flies, but he does find it harder and harder to focus on the kiss.

"You've slowed down," says Sherlock.

The breath leaves him in a rush. "I'm terrified."

Sherlock parts John's flies. "Why? You've done this before."

Again, he really doesn't want to think about Murray. "Yes, but not often."

"I see," says Sherlock in that quiet, gentle way he gets every so often. He pauses for a moment, thumbs stroking idly over the twin rises of John's hipbones.

"Am I terrifying?' says Sherlock.

John starts at the sound of the worry in his voice. "No," he says. "Yes. You're fantastic and horrible and wonderful and…"

Sherlock kisses him gently. "You're afraid of doing something wrong." He slips strong fingers between the fabric of John's trousers and the curve of his boxer-clad arse. "Don't be. I do that all the time," Sherlock says.

The best way to cover nervousness is through action. John begins to unfasten the flies of Sherlock's trousers. "Doesn't seem to bother you."

Sherlock thrusts the trousers down to John's ankles. "I hide it well."

John leans on Sherlock's shoulder as they remove trousers, socks, and shoes. (Something about Sherlock's deliberation with untying and loosening makes John need to watch, blushing and anticipating.) When John repeats the same process on Sherlock, he presses open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock's smooth, pale, nearly hairless belly. Delights in the way Sherlock's breath goes ragged when John dips his tongue to taste his skin.

And that rich baritone, now an octave lower, murmuring his name. John could die a happy man just hearing that single syllable in Sherlock's throaty voice.

"Besides," says Sherlock, voice rough. "I've done quite a lot of self-experimentation, and it's unlikely you'll injure me."

Sensing an impending lecture, John stands.

"That particular orifice in most humans--"

John shuts him up with a kiss. Sherlock jerks slightly at first, startled, then leans into it.

"Your room," says Sherlock at last.

"Cleaner?" says John, though he's already pulling them toward it.

"It's yours," says Sherlock. Whatever that means, it seems to be important to him, so John doesn't object. Sherlock's bedroom is probably full of sharp, dangerous, gruesome, and/or unsanitary things anyway.

Heat. So much heat. John had almost forgotten how much warmer men are, even ones as ridiculously slender as Sherlock. But the man's all wiry muscle, coiled and wanting and maybe a little stronger than he is. John's heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears as they cross the threshold of his bedroom. Clothing. There's still clothing in the way, and even if it is only two pairs of underwear, it's too much. He wants to feel. Has to touch. He needs to know this is real. Sherlock's in his bedroom, all gorgeous lines and naked skin and God he just wants to _fuck_ the man. Sherlock, grinning, strips off his pants. Pulls John over to the bed. Sits so his face is on a level with John's cock, which seems determined to break free of its cotton prison all by itself.

John shivers happily at the sight of Sherlock staring at him so intently. At the huff of heated breath against his erection. He wouldn't…? Would he?

"Yes," Sherlock says. "I would."

Sherlock yanks John's boxers to his knees. Sucks John's cock down to the root. With a bark of shock and pleasure, John fumbles for Sherlock's narrow shoulders. Clings to him.

It's the most ruthless blowjob John's ever had. Sherlock's mouth is hot and efficient, with a sensitive tongue that… John shudders hard. Sherlock learns him with the same scientific precision with which he observes everything else. Tongue. Teeth. Friction. How hard. How deep. How fast. The man has impossible control and his mouth feels… John can't… Can't hold… God, he's going…

Cold. John yelps as the cool air envelops his cock. So close. Bastard. Sherlock. God.

Sherlock's pulled off of him. John's panting and unable to form coherent words, but Sherlock appears to be only mildly winded. His eyes have the kind of darkly victorious look he gets when he's solved something. "That should be just enough," he says calmly.

John's going to kill him. "What?"

Sherlock wraps long fingers around John's cock. Strokes him with just the right oh-my-god-he-shouldn't-be-able-to twist. "You have condoms and lubricant in the night stand," Sherlock says with calm confidence. "I would very much like you to use them."

It takes a moment for John's brain to catch up, but unless he's very much mistaken, Sherlock just asked him to… "You want me…?"

"On top?" The euphemism seems to amuse Sherlock as he reaches for the drawer. Another of those maddening sultry smiles. "Oh yes."

John kisses him. Deeply. Tastes the mix of flavours, his and Sherlock's. Loves it. Wants to taste it again and again. His cock is almost painfully hard, balls drawn up tight with need and yet he can't stop kissing this man. "What do you want me to do?"

"Fuck me senseless," Sherlock says. "If you can."

The flash of lust is blinding. "I can." And now there's slick and one of the condoms from the forlorn six-pack that John had started to despair of ever using. And more kissing. And Sherlock is reaching behind himself. And John's rolling on the condom as if his life depended on it, which he's starting to feel it does because he wants THIS. Needs THIS. NOW.

Sherlock snatches pillows from the head of the bed. Leans over them. And the sight of him, flushed and hot and open and waiting to be _fucked_ catches John off guard. Erotic, yes, but intimidating too. This isn't Murray, the slight and pretty young thing he left behind in Afghanistan. This is Sherlock, acerbic, critical, judgmental Sherlock, who sucked his cock like a pro and has himself ready as if John's but the latest of a thousand lovers.

Bugger it. John lines up, but Sherlock's taller than he by half a foot, and all of it leg. He snatches one more pillow. Kneels on it and is suddenly acutely aware of the ridiculousness of needing to pad himself up to be tall enough to roger his flatmate.

He does try. He wants this badly, but suddenly he's losing the erection that Sherlock so masterfully roused, and eventually he has to admit defeat. "I can't."

His hand goes instinctively to his eyes, both at the humiliation of it and out of fear of seeing Sherlock's disappointed -- or, even worse, _disapproving_ \-- look. "I'm sorry."

"Do you want to?" it's a polite and carefully neutral question.

John has the keen sense that if he answers wrong, Sherlock will pack up and flee his room, never to speak of this night again. "God yes. _FUCK_ yes. I just… I can't… I'm still afraid of getting it wrong."

Gentle hands on his shoulders. Gentle fingers pull his hand from his eyes. Sherlock's eyes are a soft grey. His smile warms. His kiss is so soft that it utterly undoes John. The sob catches in his throat, because this is not the Sherlock he thought he knew.

"Shall I try instead?" Sherlock says softly.

John's fingers tighten against Sherlock's skin, his body pressing against his lover's in a silent _yes yes yes YES!_

Sherlock kisses him down to the mattress, reclining half-on him. Strips off the condom in one neat motion. Strokes John's cock with long fingers and his lips with that heated mouth. John relaxes into the embrace, revelling in the pungent scent of Sherlock's arousal and enjoying the near-vertigo of Sherlock's concentrated foreplay.

"I do want you," John whispers.

"I had noticed." But the teasing smile takes the edge off the words. "Does it help to say the words aloud, John?"

He thinks about it for a moment as fingertips tease the head of his cock. "Yes."

The hard edge to those eyes makes the command all the hotter. "Then say it again."

"I want you."

A sharp tug at his cock makes John gasp. "What exactly do you want? Be precise."

"Want… you." He's had a male lover before, and yet here he is, blushing like a virgin. What is it about this man?

A sharp pinch at his nipple. Almost too much, then perfect. Sherlock tsks. "I'm disappointed, John. You're usually so much more articulate."

John loses the capacity for speech when that wicked mouth encloses his other nipple.

The lips linger with the hint of teeth. Puffs of breath make John's hips jerk in rhythm. "The word you want is "fuck"."

"Fuck," John repeats in a rush of air. "Yes. Fuck. Oh God fuck. Please…"

Sherlock silences him with a merciless kiss. "I need data, John. Tell me _precisely_ what you want me to do."

He almost smiles as the words find their way to his lips. "I want you to fuck me."

Only the faint flush and a slight shiver tell him that this is what Sherlock's been waiting to hear. John's hands find their way up Sherlock's back, then down, a light scratching of nails on sweat-dampened skin.

"Please," John says, loving every word. "Sherlock. Fuck me. I need you to fuck me."

The smile is slow and devilish. A slight nod. The brushing hint of a kiss. "As you wish."

Sherlock sits up and reaches for the drawer.

Like the blowjob earlier, Sherlock's idea of foreplay is more ruthless and thorough than John ever expected to enjoy. He's grateful for having purchased what at the time seemed a pathetic overabundance of lubricant for any one single man to own. Sherlock kisses his way down John's belly. Feather-light fingertips trace patterns and invisible designs as that hot mouth finds its way down to the crease where inner thigh meets groin. John scrambles for something to cling to as Sherlock kisses his way up John's thigh. Licks at the back of his knee, which is both painfully ticklish and hard-wired straight to the pleasure-centres deep in his body. John's dick twitches, desperate for some attention. Sherlock gently but firmly places one of John's legs over his shoulder. Slicks up his fingers. Teases his way inside John. Stretches him. Explores him. Finds just the right way to make John shiver. Moan. Fuck down onto his fingers. It's like torture he doesn't want to stop, for even as John's never been more aware of Sherlock's scrutiny, he revels in being observed. He wants Sherlock to know these details. Wants him to remember because if he does this may be only the first night of many.

"Please," he gasps. "I need--" His plea turns to a strangled moan as Sherlock's other hand closes around his cock and begins steady and merciless strokes.

It's not long before what started as a tentative request becomes a chant. "Fuck me, oh God yes PLEASE I need you to fuck me, oh God yes PLEASE..." The words flow and his self-consciousness fades into a blinding need to be finished off.

Sherlock lowers John's leg and reaches into the drawer for a foil packet. "On your knees, John."

He obeys without pause. Turns over. Spreads himself wide. Invites his lover inside.

**************

Any doubts Sherlock might have had fade at the first mutual sigh of pleasure as he slides inside John. The man is burning hot, and so responsive Sherlock hardly has to move to make him shudder. Pleased, his hands find John's hips and he begins to seek the right rhythm.

He would have preferred to watch the play of emotions on John's face. To watch as the sensations smooth the tension from those memory-haunted features. But frankly, this position will afford him the best angle, and really he's tortured John far longer than he expected to be able. The past few minutes have been something of an experiment just to see how much the man could take without coming.

The answer is: a lot. Sherlock thrusts a little harder, earning a gasp of pleasure. He bends low over John's back, kissing and licking his way up. John, shivering with pleasure, rocks ever so slightly backward to meet Sherlock's hips at the crest of each stroke.

John didn't know he's a bottom, of that Sherlock is certain. His past lover (there was only the one battlefield romance, and near as Sherlock can tell it was more about sex than love) preferred to sub, and being on top would have only reassured John that the fling was neither confirmation nor denial of his beliefs about his sexuality.

Sherlock wishes he could turn off his brain sometimes.

He thrusts slower. Deeper. John groans, satisfyingly impaled. Sherlock licks his way over to the scars on John's shoulder. Tastes. Runs his tongue over the texture, intrigued with every crease and pucker.

John's muscles are getting tenser and tenser under Sherlock's lips. It's not pain -- Sherlock would be able to read the signs. Worry, maybe? Needs to be reassured.

"You're beautiful," Sherlock whispers in John's ear. "All of you."

With a deep exhale of relief, John drops his head. Begins to move with him again. "Please fuck me."

Those words, offered so freely, hit Sherlock squarely in the libido. His few attempts at sex mostly featured him on the bottom, but this is so much better. He should be bored by the repetitive movement, but every thrust is unique because John is unique and alive and responsive. And so fuckable Sherlock doesn't ever want this to end.

John is moaning beneath him. Sherlock bites the scarred flesh of John's shoulder. Sucks hard. He wants to bruise the man. To mark John as his. If that mark is over the scar that gave him John, so much the better. John gasps. Tightens around Sherlock's cock. Sherlock relaxes the bite into softer suckling. Nibbles and strokes gently and caresses until John relaxes into his touch again.

John's next exhale of submission is enough to make Sherlock grin.

Sherlock knows better than to talk too much. Keep it to commands so his mouth doesn't get ahead of him. He honestly wasn't sure how far he could push John, and this is so much better than anything he might've planned.

He can read the whole of John in every movement. Only once before has he gotten on his knees. It went poorly. Someone was injured. Turned him off. And he turned himself off. Overcompensated by becoming aggressively heterosexual and goddammit why can't he TURN OFF THE FUCKING VOICES IN HIS HEAD?

He tries to tune out the awareness that there's an odd threadbare spot in the sheet under his right knee. The exact temperature at which this brand of lubricant will go gummy. The measure of the angle of the shadows thrown by the lamp. Details. Details. Too much of the wrong kind of data.

John. John is shaking. Trembling. He must be doing something right. Core temperature increasing. Sphincter muscles contracting in rhythm. John's moaning. Pleading.

And one of these pillows contains goosefeathers, not synthetic polyfill.

John's arse slaps against his hips, an intoxicating impact made all the headier by the sweat between them.

The stain on the wall has changed shape but not size, though it appears not to be any form of mould with which he's familiar. Investigate later, see if it's a new species or something mutated. He resists the urge to peer more closely at it.

"Sherlock?" John sounds strangely collected, though in the next moment he's sobbing in time to Sherlock's strokes.

"What?" He needs to concentrate to keep the rhythm. John's going to come, and he's not because the details in his head won't let him.

John's left femur is precisely .25" shorter than his right. Older injury, possibly bicycle or maybe footie. John's build would have been wrong for rugby.

"You all right?"

Damn the man's empathy. "Just enjoy." He's lost the masterful quality to his voice. Instead, he sounds a bit impatient. "I'm fine. Just enjoy."

The bullet that wrecked John's shoulder was a bolt from a L108A1 minimi, almost certainly from the shipment that went missing and Mycroft is right -- John is going to leave him because Sherlock is _not a good person._

"I-- oh jesus Sherlock fuck me oh god!" cries John.

Sherlock smiles, but it's a bitter smile. The tension in John's sacral muscles is increasing and god DAMN it, why does something always have to ruin moments like this?

"Sherlock, fucking PLEASE!"

John's shoulders tense beneath his hands. Sherlock drapes himself over his lover, willing pleasure that he himself can't share. (_that he doesn't deserve_)

John comes bucking. Shrieks like a man being murdered. And Sherlock does enjoy it in a dispassionate sort of way. It should have been mutual. Could have been complete. Still feels good, but not good enough.

John mumbles the kind of half-coherent string of profanity only a military man could conjure. Sherlock holds him tightly. Breathes with him. Tries to ignore the steady stream of minutiae impinging on his senses and the false concern of Mycroft's voice in the back of his mind.

"You didn't come," says John.

A low moan catches in his throat. "I can't," he pronounces crisply.

"Ah," says John, and there's a new tension in him, the kind of a man who's steeling himself to be the object of a one-night-stand. "Can I…?"

"No." Miserable, he pulls away. "It's not you. It's my fault."

"Why's… that?" John says.

"I'm not good."

John gives a short bark of a laugh. He won't let Sherlock retreat though, turning to catch him by the arms before Sherlock can flee the bed. John pulls him close. Kisses him and it's back. The wanting John. The needing him as Sherlock shouldn't need anyone because soon John will come to his senses and this will be over before it's begun. And it's not fair that John's kisses are sizzling through him, electric in a way that just makes him want to eat John in several thousand tiny bites.

"You. Are afraid," says John between kisses. " Why?"

"Mycroft said…"

"Mycroft is a manipulative bastard who delights in screwing with people's heads," says John. "I'm the only one who says what happens to me. And even if you weren't bloody amazing in bed -- which you are -- I would've stayed. I can't not be with you because it just doesn't work without you."

John calms him with precise touches. Strips off the used condom, not quite as suavely as Sherlock did, but with exactly the kind of solid reassurance he desperately needs right now. Sherlock leans into the kisses. Holds John with possessive arms. Loves the way he can make the man relax and how John's relaxation soothes him too.

"So what else was it?" says John. "It's never all one thing with you."

He nods, seeking another kiss. "Too many details."

"You couldn't concentrate."

"It was easier when I could watch you," Sherlock admits.

"All right. Do you need me to drive?" says John softly.

"You don't have to." His. John might actually be his.

John's laugh is loose with just a shade of self-deprecation. "Sherlock you just made me come six ways from Sunday, and I didn't even know I enjoyed… It's the least I can do."

He looks into those earnest eyes and loves John for reasons that evade even his Cambridge-sponsored vocabulary. "All right."

"Murray did this for me once," John says. "I assume you guessed already about him?"

"Your orderly and lover?"

"My sergeant and lover," John corrects. "And sometime batsman, yes. Lie back."

John now has his full attention. Obediently, Sherlock lies back, watching to see what his lover will do next.

John pours a generous handful of lubricant into his palm. Grasps Sherlock's cock, a shocking invasion that has him hissing through his teeth, though with John this is pleasure and not…

"Good?" John says softly as he begins to stroke. The best thing about the doctor is his questions are genuine questions, and he listens solidly and fairly to the answers. Unlike Sherlock's damnable brother, there are no games with John.

Sherlock nods, knowing that his voice will either fail him or he'll make some ridiculous noise.. His eyes fall closed at the exquisite rush of sensations.

"No." John's voice is quiet but firm. "Look at me. Focus here."

He obeys, and it's better, it's so much better. It's just what he needs. The slight high flush in John's cheek beneath the tan. The intensity of the eyes. The thousand imperfections in his skin that just make him more lovable, more expressive and more bloody HUMAN than anyone else Sherlock has ever known.

Bastard Mycroft was right -- Sherlock's in love with his Doctor Watson and there's no way around it.

He expected to be bored. Sex is usually boring. But John's intensity is fascinating. Endlessly. And he seems to find new and different things to do with every stroke. Sherlock's hips begin to move with that grip. Yes. Do that. Yes. Do that. "Yes. Do that. Yes!"

John kisses him. Hard. Predatory. Possessive. The sensation is like an incendiary device, lighting up from the inside out in a thousand micro-explosions that build up and up and up until they reach the point of critical combustion and there is only want, want, want and heat, heat, heat and the world falls away and there is only John and the NEED.

John doesn't roll another condom on him. It's a distracting moment of realization, and then a dizzying rush of arousal because Sherlock KNOWS beyond any shadow of a doubt that this is a measure of his trust. Like throwing himself into the abyss in a swan-dive, John wants to know him completely. Be part of him with nothing between them. Be HIS.

John's knees straddle his hips, John slides slowly down and Sherlock is utterly lost. The second entry is even better than the first because he can SEE. This time he can watch. He can touch. He laces his fingers with John's slickened ones. Runs his hands through the light dusting of hair on John's chest. Feels John sliding against him and surrounding him. Every exhale of breath. Every shuddering inhale.

Sherlock's careful not to move too much at first. He lets John find his rhythm. And once he does, Sherlock shifts with him. Meets each downward thrust. Cups John's hips in his hands. Moves him gently and subtly so that both of them will…

Yes. So much better. So much better like this. John's struggling to keep his control and his composure. It's splendid to watch and even more splendid to feel. And that slow curl of tension. Tightening of scrotum that means his own body is responding. Interesting. Orgasm usually takes more time, sometimes hours. Frequently doesn't happen at all. But John is on him and around him and sliding against him and it's bloody BRILLIANT and though it feels so good his instinct is to close his eyes he doesn't want to for fear of missing even a fraction of a second of John doing his damnedest to keep moving even though Sherlock's fairly sure the man's in the throes of continuous full-body orgasm. He grabs John's hips firmly and fucks up into him because he can and because it'll make John come apart at the seams and that will be more fantastic than anything, though he doesn't want it to end but he's also sure he might die if he can't come because coming IN John will be so impossibly good it might well kill him and he doesn't even mind…

The orgasm shatters him utterly, though he's sure he hardly makes a sound, not that one could've heard, with John screaming himself hoarse.

Then, there is silence.

It's so calm and quiet that at first the silence doesn't register on Sherlock's senses. His brain's always at work, even when he succumbs to a few fitful hours of sleep. But this…?

Quiet. Stillness. Everything at rest but his breathing, which seems to have gone a bit mad.

John's head is thrown back. He's slightly heavy against Sherlock's knees, which have drawn up to support John's lower back. Hoping the silence in his head will continue just a bit longer, Sherlock levers himself up so John is straddling his lap. John seems to unfreeze from an expression of ecstatic bliss, melting against Sherlock in an uncoordinated embrace. The kiss is sloppy and grateful and so blatantly TRUE that Sherlock wraps his arms around John, holding him close.

Even after the kiss slowly winds down, John presses Sherlock's head to his chest.

He can hear John's heart beat with absolute clarity in the silence.

John is his. He wants to be. The human body can't lie to him.

"Thank you," Sherlock says softly.

The laugh burbles up from John's chest, halting at first, then booming louder and louder. John cups Sherlock's face in his hands, kisses him soundly, and laughs like it's the funniest thing ever.

Sherlock's not quite sure what to make of that.

"You don't even know, do you?" John manages at last.

"Know what?" The silence begins to retreat a little as anxiety creeps back in.

"How fucking amazing you are."

He checks every nuance of John's expression for any tells of deceit or exaggeration. Finds none. Smiles slowly. "You do the most intriguing wiggling thing, when I run my hand down your hip. And you make this noise."

John moans into his mouth.

"Yes, that exactly," Sherlock continues. "I want to know if you'll do it every time."

John grins. "Sounds like something that requires experimentation."

"Constant," Sherlock insists. "I'll need to test dozens of variables."

"Brilliant." John leans in to kiss him. Tightens suddenly, a realization. John pulls back. "We need to get dressed."

Sherlock splays his hands over John's shoulder blades, pulling him down, possessive. "But I'm enjoying this."

John kisses him briefly. "Me too. More later, if I can take it, but I just solved it."

He should be able to fold John in interesting ways, so long as Sherlock is mindful of the leg injury that doesn't exist and the shoulder injury that does. "Solved what?"

"The murdered girl's sister." Only John can communicate so much with a look

It's Sherlock's turn to tense, this time in triumph. "Charm bracelet."

John nods. "The third one in -- that's not a charm, it's a key. The key to the secret compartment in that bloody bureau. And she's moving tonight, selflessly giving up her flat in town to go back to console their parents."

Dear god, how did he miss it? "Not their parents, HER parents."

John nods. "She's not a sister; she's a cousin, and it was all about the inheritance she lost because the girl she killed was closer kin."

His blood thrills, the familiar caress of his most beloved mistress Crime. "That man we chased -- and you shot -- was HIRED to be found."

Nodding more fiercely, John slides off him. Sherlock has to catch him, because John's knees have gone a bit wobbly from the very satisfying exertion.

"Poor bastard thought he'd been hired to burgle a flat to return 'rightful' property," John says, "not to find the body of a slain girl. And you were an even more convenient find, happening in on it like you did."

Sherlock's the faster dresser, but John's clothing is less complicated. As they head for the door Sherlock blocks the way. John goes so easily into his arms. The kiss is intense and fierce and tastes of immanent victory.

John smiles up at him. ""The game is on?"

"The game is definitely on."

Chuckles turn to laughing as they gather up the items of outerwear, racing each other down the narrow stairs and out the door.

John catches his hand as Sherlock hails the cab.

Without looking, Sherlock squeezes John's hand.

John squeezes back.

_mycroft: Thank yous not necessary.  
sherlock: Thank yous not forthcoming.  
mycroft: Shall I have Anthea add "lubricant" and "condoms" to the list of essentials?  
sherlock: Do what you like.  
mycroft: Magnanimous, but a dangerous concession to grant.  
sherlock: Am in a good mood. Case is solved. Danger suits me.  
mycroft: But does John?  
sherlock: As Anthea does you.  
mycroft: Touché._


End file.
